


This Is Next Year

by Liralen



Series: Rookie of the Year [2]
Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Casual Sex, Dirty Talk, M/M, World Series, sex as a reward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-07
Updated: 2011-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:57:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liralen/pseuds/Liralen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what he's lived his life for: dog piles and champagne corks, hideous rings encrusted with diamonds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is Next Year

The wind's tearing at him like a furious lover by the time the last out's recorded, and his muscles are already through the shuddering weakness and cooling rapidly, seizing and setting into something like living rigor mortis, so Posey doesn't figure it's much his fault when he's caught open-mouthed and dumb. They're barely into the clubhouse, slapping backs and hollering atta-boys as they break away for the showers, and for a brief moment Madison Bumgarner's sharing a grin and squeezing his shoulder, and then, like magic, there's suddenly a _hand_ on Posey's _dick_ , and it's _Madison's_ hand, and that loops through Posey's head about fifteen times before he stops even trying to make it make sense.

"Whoa," he says, and then groans, because that's a stupid thing to say after staring fish-mouthed at a guy for a solid five seconds. And also, because of the part where, y'know, Madison's hand is _still on his dick._

"Your. Uh. Your hand's on my dick," he stutters out, and then waits for the ground to open up at his feet and swallow him whole, because he's pretty sure people can't actually die of embarrassment, but this doesn't feel like anything he could possibly live through, either.

"You noticed that, huh?" Bumgarner asks, and he's laughing at him, which should piss Posey off, but he's also squeezing harder and rubbing a little with the heel of his hand, and Posey can't seem to get his mind to focus on a single thought long enough to do any good.

"Kinda hard to miss," he says back, voice rising on the last word to a squeak as Madison does--- _something_ , he doesn't even know what, something that makes Posey's stomach twist and jaw drop, sends all the blood roaring and pounding through his head. His balance is thrown and he stumbles, distantly feels Madison catch and steady him, Madison who is smiling messily at him, all bright eyes and even teeth and long fingers shoving into his boxers.

"Relax," Madison mumbles, fucking _insane_ thing to say, and Posey wants to laugh, wants to make it very clear that he thinks this is _weird_ and uncomfortable and really, really _unprofessional_ , but he kind of needs all his breath and remaining brain cells just to stay upright.

"There you go," Bumgarner says encouragingly. "Yeah, relax, you were so good out there tonight. Fucking locked in, man, swear to god, s'like you were reading my mind," and that's about where Posey stops paying attention, just closes his eyes and lets Bumgarner's voice and the hiss of the showers and the heat wash over him, wipe his mind clean and blank, and he's hardly even embarrassed when he comes a minute later all over Madison's hand. He's glad he's wearing his home whites.

The hand slips out of his pants and he struggles to catch his breath, opening his eyes just in time to see Madison grin and wave goodbye before heading off for a shower of his own. Posey stares after him for several minutes, during which he contemplates moving half a dozen times and then decides it's too much trouble. By the time he finds the motivation to peel off his uniform and step under the water the clubhouse is nearly empty, and he isn't one bit closer to figuring out what the hell just happened.

* * *

It's only game one, but it's the NLCS, so yeah, Posey gets it. He understands why everyone's sliding him sidelong glances, like if they look at him straight on he'll just fall apart. It's _Roy freaking Halladay._ Even Posey feels like he should be flipping out a little bit.

But he isn't. He's not trying to keep his cool or stay calm, he just is. Cool and calm and ready, and as he trots onto the field and flips a ball to his pitcher, glove to glove, Lincecum winks at him and allows a brief grin. It's all giddy excitement and swagger, the strange combination Tim brings to everything, and Posey feels it, right there: locked in.

They work all night like one mind split between two bodies, never a miscue or a shake-off, and maybe the fans and the FOX commentators and the Phillies' bats are surprised, but when the 27th out comes around Posey rises smoothly from the crouch; work over, day done, clocking out.

The guys pour out of the dugout and onto the field, slapping backs and asses, shouting _hell yeah_ s and _goddamn son_ s and kicking up dust. Tim finds Posey in the crowd, knocks a sharp-boned shoulder into his ribs and says, "Yeah, pretty much, just like that."

He's not sure how they go from that easy unspoken camaraderie to Tim on his knees in the video room, pushing Posey up against the locked door and peeling off his pants like the skin from an orange. He wonders with concern if he might have a concussion, because there are several steps from _there_ to _here_ missing from his memory, and he feels like he's waking up every few minutes, blinking hard to keep the world in focus. He doesn't remember any head-on collisions recently, though, and he doesn't sleepwalk, so he doesn't know how he would have managed to concuss himself. He's pondering it seriously when Tim gets first his hand and then his mouth around Posey's dick, and his head thunks back against the door so hard that it kind of becomes a moot question.

"Timmy, jesus. What the, what the hell, _god_... You, _oh Christ_ , 'n' Madison, an'... hell, izzat what that was all about with Cain and the strip club?"

Lincecum draws back with a long, slow suck, glancing up at Posey with apparent amusement, and licking his lips in a way that is somehow more obscene than when they were wrapped around his dick. "Dude, you mind not calling out other pitchers' names while I'm doing this? S'rude."

Posey kind of gapes at him, he can feel it in his eyes and the tense muscles around his mouth, but Tim just smiles sticky-sweet, gives Posey's side a pat and goes back to blowing him.

* * *

Jonathan Sanchez loses Game 3, and for the first guilty time in his life, Posey is unspeakably glad. He has no idea if Jonny is in on this whole... _thing_ , this wild-colored theater of the absurd that has become his life with playoff victories and handjobs from teammates, and he doesn't want to find out. He's only 23, but at this moment, under the full glare of the World Fucking Series, his heart just can't take the strain.

* * *

On November 1st, at 7:58 p.m., Posey goes completely deaf.

It only lasts a moment; just long enough for the constant loop of _oh my god motherfucker yes holy shit_ to run through his head once, echoing thunderously inside his skull, the only sound for miles. Just a moment: he breathes, and every sound he's ever heard in 23 years of living rushes back like a tidal wave, drags him under and wrecks him against the rocks.

He has no idea who he's hugging, whose face is pressed to his shoulder, whose arms are thrown around his neck. It doesn't matter in the least, because out here on the field under a thick brilliant moon they're all interchangeable, they're all the same. Filled up with joy until it bursts, spilling curses and hallelujahs and grins so wide they hurt, warp their mouths into a different shape.

It's everything he's ever wanted all at once, and it makes him dizzy, makes him sick with its taste, so sharp and rich. This is what he's lived his life for: this moment, this glory. Dog piles and champagne corks, hideous rings encrusted with diamonds. Swinging strikes and clean surprise. Everything he's worked for since he was six years old has just been tipped into his lap, and underneath the barely tolerable burn of joy is a sharp, frantic need: he wants _more._

He finds Zito underground in the clubhouse, already deep into a bottle of Taittinger. The place is still mostly empty, swathed in sheets of plastic and cold from the blast of the A/C. Zito manages to arch a brow at him while simultaneously knocking back a long hit of champagne, shuddering faintly as it pulls through him, leaves his eyes full of carbonation and his mouth wet and red.

"The Giants win the pennant, the Giants win the pennant, the Giants win the pennant," Zito drones with just the faintest slur. "Jesus Christ. I mean," he pauses to take another long pull from the bottle, "Jesus motherfucking Christ on a _crutch_. History."

"History," Posey parrots back. He isn't thinking about history at all. He isn't thinking about much except what the stubbled curve of Zito's jaw tastes like, and he hasn't had a single sip yet, but he's fucked up better than anyone could hope to get tonight.

He gets one clean swipe up Zito's neck before he's being pushed away, tongue burning and alive with the taste of sweat. Zito's laughing at him, but his voice is too low, a minor chord, nothing like humor.

"Got yourself turned around, hack?" Zito's probably trying for a barb, but it comes out close to an endearment. "Pretty sure the lucky motherfucker who should be sucking your cock is thataway."

Posey licks his lips. His mouth tastes like blue Gatorade. "Don't want that," he says, taking a step forward, undeterred when Zito's big hand comes up to stop him in his tracks.

"Too damn _bad_ ," Zito spits, mouth twisted around it, ugly/pretty. "Case you didn't notice, my name ain't even on the fucking roster. I don't owe you _shit._ "

"Good," Posey says, and then drops to his knees right there ( _second nature_ ) and mouths the hard line of cock straining under Zito's uniform. Zito groans like he's been shot and it resonates in Posey's stomach, the second-best thing he's ever felt and both of them tonight.

"Don't---shit---don't owe you anything," Zito pants, one big hand curling around the back of Posey's neck as the other fumbles open his pants. "Not gonna suck you, not gonna let you---aw, fuck, like that---not gonna let you fuck me---"

Posey's mouth makes a wet, filthy sound as he pulls away, sending a shudder up and down through Zito's whole body. "Zito," he gasps, breathing hot against the skin bared before him, "shut up. Want _you_ , want you _now_ , so stop talking and fuck my mouth and _shut the fuck up._ "

Zito's breath punches out of him like a doll that's lost its stuffing. Posey barely has time to get his lips wrapped tight before Zito's jerking and coming, fucking up in short, vicious thrusts into Posey's mouth. His eyes are wide and dark fixed on Posey's face, heat sparking in them as Posey leans back, swipes messily at his mouth and tries to catch his breath.

He can't quite read Zito's face, but when he says, "It wasn't supposed to happen like this," Posey can hear it all in Zito's voice, and he thinks he knows Zito doesn't mean what just happened between them.

"Ain't supposed to be like anything," he says back, still down on his knees with his hands on Zito's thighs, both because he's feeling light-headed and lazy and because he knows it's a good look for him. "It just _is_ , and it's _good_ , okay? It's good enough."

Zito nods and cuts his eyes away. "Yeah. Okay," he says calmly, trying to take a step back, but Posey hooks his hands in the pooled fabric of Zito's pants and won't let go.

"Hey," he croaks, voice thick and rough, used, and that gets Zito's eyes back on him. "You want to get out of here?"

Zito's stare turns confused. Searching. "It's your party."

"I know." Posey rises to his feet finally, tugging Zito's pants closed as an afterthought. "Ask me to leave with you."

Zito still looks confused, but he's smiling, just a little. Indulgent and possibly amused, and it does wonders for him, that little smile, briefest flash of teeth; takes years off of him, softens the tense pull of his jaw and mouth and makes Posey's stomach drop like the meanest curve.

"Leave with me," Zito says against his mouth, as the roar of the mob above them swells and begins to pour down the stairs, and Posey grins, stupidly young and bright and happy, already dragging Zito to the door.


End file.
